Domestics
by Lizzy Lovegood
Summary: When the Doctor and Rose aren't saving the universe, they're just like any other couple. Weeelll, almost. Snippets of the life of the Doctor in the TARDIS with Rose Tyler.
1. Mornings

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Doctor Who, Doctor/Rose would be canon and River would never have existed.

**A/N: **So this is something I've been wanting to write for quite a while because, as I have stated before, the Doctor and Rose are everything that is perfect in the world.

This will basically be a collection of fluffy snippets of their life together in the TARDIS. There's a bit of a plot if you squint, but not much more than that. Pure fluff (be careful how much you ingest at once). ;)

_Allons-y!_

**. . .**

**Domestics**

**Mornings**

The Doctor doesn't need much sleep. He may choose to – lying in bed, eyes closed, for a few hours is a pleasant way to pass the early hours of the morning. Rose swears he snores, he swears Time Lords do _not _snore (their superior biology does not allow them to) but he can't tell if she's joking. Besides, tinkering with the TARDIS in the early hours of the morning just as pleasant – if not more so, since it afforded Rose a decent night's sleep.

How humans – his pink-and-yellow one included – can possibly need so much sleep is beyond him. The Doctor has to forcibly stop himself numerous times from waking Rose up – at 3:00 AM, at 3:02 AM. . . . It gets boring amassing all the knowledge the universe has to offer when there is no one to share it with _right that very second_. He knows from experience though, that even if _he_ may find the mating habits of the Sycorax absolutely riveting, Rose _does not care at 4:30 in the morning, Doctor!_

Therefore, he waits until a semi-reasonable time – 7:06 AM – before bounding into her room, excited as a puppy with his gorgeous (if he does say so himself) big brown eyes to match.

"Time to start the day, Rose Tyler!" he crows, bouncing up and down on the pink bedspread. Rose groans and buries her head in the pillow, grumbling about inconsiderate Time Lords and has he ever heard of a thing called _beauty sleep_.

The Doctor is quite used to such grumblings.

"You're beautiful enough," he reminds her. "Now – up, up!" He lifts the coverlet to expose her bare feet and she opens eyes still fuzzy with sleep to glare at him.

He only beams, step one on his mental checklist complete.

Step two – breakfast – is a bit more difficult. The TARDIS is constantly switching things around on him and in the fifteen minutes it takes Rose to stumble into the kitchen – hair a mess, still in her pink pajamas – he has only managed to unearth a potato masher and a chestnut-roasting pan. Where did they pick _that _up?

She only laughs at his befuddled expression, one which quickly changes to outrage as she reaches into a cupboard and pulls out a griddle. Rose selects the ingredients for banana pancakes with ease and he growls, muttering idle threats to the TARDIS under his breath.

Rose tells him _she must know who the domestic one is_.

The Doctor shakes a finger at her and ties an apron around his waist. "I'll show you domestic, Rose Tyler." He sets to chopping the bananas with relish while Rose adds the milk, eggs, and flour – what she would call _more vital_ ingredients but what is more vital than bananas? – to a large mixing bowl.

Pouring the malleable batter onto the hot griddle, the Doctor uses his sonic to manipulate it into ridiculously intricate shapes before plopping the banana slices in, one by one. He slides several piping-hot Daleks onto a plate Rose hands him before starting on the next batch – Cybermen this time.

_You know, most people just make hearts and smiley faces. _Rose laughs and pops a piece of Dalek into her mouth.

The Doctor gives her a hard look – and then winks. "I don't do anything by halves, Rose Tyler."

But he makes hearts anyway – three of them – with the intensity one would reserve for surgery on that same organ. One comes out slightly wonky which, he holds firmly, are the way Time Lord hearts are _supposed _to look.

"None of that Valentine's Day nonsense for us," he tells her. "Do you know, I've never understood that holiday. What is it, a competition between gents for who can buy their wife more stuff? Or between women, for who gets the most? You know, once. . . ."

Amidst his rambling, Rose sets their plates on the table and he joins her. They drown the pancakes in syrup – the Doctor chops up another couple of bananas to put on top – and eat their way steadily through the pile. The Doctor knows there will be no running today.

Instead there is talking. Talking about planets they've been to – dangerous and non – and planets they plan to go to – dangerous and non. Talking about going to visit Jackie – _she'd love to see you_/_she'd love to _slap_ me; a sadist your mother is_. Talking about Captain Jack's luck rebuilding the universe (the Doctor) and whether he might be interested in some _dancing _(Rose despite the Doctor's protestations).

_I didn't mean _me_, Doctor! After all, you're the slim, foxy one, aren'tcha?_

"_And _rude and not ginger! I think that might turn him off a bit."

_Doctor, I have never seen Jack turned _off _in my life._

They talk about they will do (visit planets and save alien races), what they might do (visit Jackie. The Doctor accepts this as fact, he can never say no to Rose), who they will never, under any circumstances, do (Jack).

They talk instead of do and that's fine with the Doctor. Because right now he has Rose and he has banana pancakes and he is happy.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed it! If you have a scene you would like to see, leave it in a review or PM me!


	2. Afternoons

**A/N: **Tried a chapter from Rose's perspective, I hope you enjoy!

Also, a big THANK YOU to everyone who has reviewed thus far. You guys give me the drive to write (translation: the more reviews I get, the quicker the updates). ;)

_Allons-y!_

**. . .**

**Afternoons**

Rose swivels in the console chair, legs swinging as she flips idly through _Cosmo _or _People _or _Us Weekly_. The Doctor fiddles with the TARDIS but looks over now and then to scoff at the blaring headlines.

_ It's always the same – someone getting married or divorced and then cheating on the person they married with the person they divorced._

But Rose needs to see that sometimes. She needs that sameness. The vastness of the whole universe – a universe she can travel around in with no more than the flick of a switch – overwhelms her a bit. When she sees a magazine from back home or from a planet billions of light-years from Earth, both filled with the same sort of rubbish – as the Doctor calls it – it makes the whole thing feel a whole lot smaller.

The Doctor, who seems to have a preternatural sense for when she is brooding – _takes one to know one _– stands and crosses the few feet between them. He places his hands on her shoulders, anchoring her, and leans down to read the article she is currently immersed in. His glasses – she is sure they aren't necessary, they're just to show off – slip to the end of his nose and he pushes them back up again.

It's always something, "What Men Really Want In Bed" – _you _minx_, Rose Tyler _– or "First Date Horror Stories" – _blimey, you humans really are terrible at this dating thing, aren't you?_

To which Rose reminds him that _their _first date involved saving the planet from being taken over by Autons.

_ Yes, but at least I took you to get chips after, _the Doctor points out. This _one didn't even do that. _

He doesn't deny it _was _a date, not when they're like this with his arms around her and his face buried in her hair and his breath sending chills down her spine.

It is so easy, so effortless, no grand romantic gesture. It is not like the day – so much like this day, these types of days tend to blend together – that the Doctor turns on the radio and invites her to dance.

_ I know the old me could cut a rug. Let's see about this body._ And he offers Rose his hand.

The song is a lively one, some nineteen-fifties swing, and he twirls her and dips her until she gets dizzy and collapses against him, both of them laughing like madmen. Then the song changes. It is a softer, slower tune now; a man croons about – what else? – a woman he loved and lost.

"Shall we dance?" Rose asks, her voice coming out huskier than she means it to. Rose looks up at him and sees him gazing right back at her; it is one of those looks he gives her when he thinks she doesn't see, one of those looks that says everything. Her hands clench in his pinstripes and for a moment, just a moment, he holds her tighter, too – as if he never wants to let go.

Then the moment is over; he, quite literally, pushes her away. He mutters something inaudible, goes to shut off the radio. The singer's crooning is abruptly cut off and now it is only the Doctor's voice, filled with over-exuberance, that echoes falsely through the room. He asks _do you want to go somewhere for chips _or _I saw this great bazaar over on Plom a few years ago, let me show you. _And she agrees to something – whatever it is – and he off spinning levers and dials.

They both act like this is normal, that this is precisely what they want.

Rose wonders how long she can keep pretending.

Because in moments like this, moments with no sweet nothings or crooning words. . . . His arms are firmly around her now (she is sure he would squeeze himself into the chair with her if he could and he reads the alleged _horror stories_ with the _gravitas _reserved for high drama. Rose laughs and snatches the glasses from his face, tries them on for size.

"Well, Doctor, how do I look?"

He pretends to fumble blindly, muttering that he can't see a thing without them and _how can she be so cruel_, reaches down to tickle her ribs instead.

In moments like this, it is impossible to deny that they are what they pretend so hard they aren't.

**. . .**

**A/N: **If there is a certain moment you would like to see, leave your suggestion in a review or PM and I will try and work it in somewhere.

To anonymous reviewer **Cookietron**, I plan on including your food fight idea within the next four or five chapters. :D


	3. Evenings

**A/N: **Not exactly a "typical" evening for these two, but I think it really sums up how the Doctor feels about her.

_Allons-y!_

**. . .**

**Evenings**

The Doctor likes to do everything quickly. He runs fast, he makes plans fast, he talks fast (Rose calls it babbling). Not only is it a necessity to avoid being murdered and/or mutilated by alien hordes but it drives him mad to think of all the knowledge and danger and _running _the universe has to offer if only he could get there just a bit _quicker_.

Therefore, he cannot _stand _it when Rose _insists _on making dinner the human way and _no sonic, Doctor!_ Everything gets done so _slooowly_. The water boils slowly, the vegetables are chopped even more slowly, the chicken is cooked more slowly still. The Doctor has seen the cookbooks Rose keeps in a pile on the counter, has seen Rose and Jackie's annotations in the margins (Rose: _add more egg_, Jackie: _brandy gives better taste_). He knows that Rose gets homesick sometimes – after their trip to that parallel universe, they spent a month back at the flat – and that making the roast chicken and the pork dumplings and the apple crisp make her feel just that bit closer. He knows it makes her happy (and anything that makes Rose happy makes him happy) but . . . well, he's _hungry_.

Rose notices him sulking and relegates him to chopping vegetables for the salad – _the manual way, Doctor, _even when he musters his best puppy-dog expression – and he sighs melodramatically but sets to it with verve nonetheless. He chops the romaine and the tomatoes and the onions as if he were born for precisely that purpose and dumps them all into a large bowl. Rose, who is putting the chicken in the oven, smiles at him and he beams back.

She sets the timer for a half-hour and his smile loses its' luster. Not to mention, his stomach growls – rather loudly.

"You know. . . ."

She cuts him off with a decisive _No, Doctor_. She has gotten far too good at reading him.

"But _Rose_, I could cook that bird to perfection in two minutes! Like that first Thanksgiving we went to? The Pilgrims loved me! We won't even have to worry about it burning again – remember last time?"

Which is just about when everything goes to hell.

In retrospect, the Doctor muses, it was a bit of a bad move on his part to bring up _last time _seeing as it had been sort of, partially, really _all _his fault (he had tried to maximize the oven's efficiency and had neglected to tell her that said oven may . . . _weelll_, _blow up _on occasion). But she hadn't really needed to say that he used his _stupid sonic _for _everything_, had she? It most certainly was _not _stupid and _he _had told _her_ (another mistake) that he certainly hadn't heard her complaining all the times it had saved her life when he expressly ordered her _not to wander off_.

Things had just gotten so much worse from there, each of them lobbing insults and long-forgiven (but apparently not forgotten) grievances at the other. At one point the oven timer – that long-forgotten catalyst – had gone off but both had ignored it. The Doctor had thought it would never end – he and Rose hardly ever fought (and never over something so trivial) and he wasn't really sure what to expect. But, at long last, Rose had stormed off, shouting about arrogant Time Lords and going to visit her mum, and he had said _fine _and she had said _fine _right back.

Now, all of five minutes later, the Doctor sits at the kitchen table, head in his hands and feeling really, _really _bad. He was sorry four minutes and thirty seconds ago (four minutes and thirty-one seconds now) and wants more than anything to go to her, wrap her up in a tight hug, and apologize (even if it isn't strictly _all _his fault, his the screwdriver is _not _stupid) but is terrified of what he might find – a still-angry Rose or a suitcase packed for a nice, long stay at her mother's.

Worse still, a room cleared of everything that makes it so uniquely _Rose _– the pink bedspread stripped and the bathroom vanity emptied of all that goop she loves to smear on her skin. Suppose she is planning on leaving for good?

The thought is too horrible to even consider. Without Rose, who will there be to get into danger (and escape) with, to laugh with, to ? Without Rose, whose hand will he have to hold?

He already misses it. Misses _her_.

The Doctor places his sonic down on the table and goes to the cupboard. The TARDIS, sensing his distress, nudges him toward the proper ingredients. Within minutes he is (manually) blending together the flour and the milk, the eggs and the chocolate. His stomach rumbles warningly but he ignores it; now is not the time to pay heed to his own selfish whims. He studies the mixture closely for a moment before adding a handful of chocolate-chips. _Pink _chocolate-chips. Rose's favorite.

Pouring the batter into a rectangular pan, he goes to take the chicken (burned to a fine crisp by now) out of the oven and tips the charred bird into the trash. It is only when he returns to the uncooked batter that he feels a pair of slim arms slip around his waist. She stands on tiptoe, burying her head in the crook of his neck, blonde hair tickling the exposed skin.

Breathing a deep sigh of relief, the Doctor turns to envelop her fully in his arms. He hopes she can't feel him shaking as he squeezes her, beaming broadly against her shoulder. It feels like a reunion after months of separation rather than a mere fifteen minutes.

When they finally pull apart, she ducks around him to pick up the pan of (as yet uncooked) brownies. She peeks up at him somewhat shyly and smiles, tongue between her teeth.

_I wasn't really in the mood for chicken anyway. _Because it's easier than saying _I'm sorry_.

"They're pink," the Doctor points out. Because it's easier than saying _Rassilon, Rose, you have nothing to be sorry for. _I'm_ sorry, I'm so, so sorry. Just don't leave, please don't leave, Rose – without you, I am nothing._ And he prays she understands.

_We should add bananas, make them pink-and-yellow. _She laughs and the Doctor knows that she knows.

Keen to please, the Doctor pulls his stock of banana chips from the cupboard (again, the TARDIS all but throws them into his hand), sprinkles them liberally into the batter – "Rose Tyler Brownies, oh, aren't they a _beauty_!" - and places the pan in the oven. Rose shuts the door and sets the timer for a half-hour.

The Doctor doesn't protest.

There is no argument to accompany the timer this time; there is a serving knife and two plates and a hungry Doctor and his companion. There is a couch to curl up on – the Doctor and Rose with barely any room to squeeze the pan of Rose Tyler Brownies (which the Doctor insists on calling them) in between – and a film to watch and, as the credits roll, a last brownie to split.

There is the slow path to take.

And the Doctor doesn't mind at all.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Let me know what you thought in a review!

Also, 50th Anniversary trailer, anyone? Way too amazing for words! Though I can't say I'm too pleased with Moffat for making Ten and Elizabeth I be romantically involved. If this is when Rose is still his companion, he shouldn't even have met her yet (when she tries to have him executed in The Shakespeare Code and he is with Martha he has no idea what he did to piss her off). _Very _annoying. OK, trying desperately not to rant here. . . . Still holding out hope for some lovely Doctor/Rose adorableness which we can turn into gifs and over-analyze _ad nauseum_.

Leave any thoughts you may have in a review, too! Can't wait to hear some of your theories!

Next chapter (tentatively to be titled **Nightmares**) should be out by mid-next week.


	4. Nightmares

**A/N: **Includes both the Ninth and Tenth Doctors for you Nine fans. :) He was my first Doctor so will always have a special place in my heart.

I feel I should warn you that this chapter references The Girl in the Fireplace (aka The Episode That Shall Not Be Named). I cannot be held responsible for any eyeball leakage or cries of "MOFFAT!" that occur.

_Allons-y!_

**. . .**

**Nightmares**

Rose wakes, gasping for air, and finds the Doctor beside her. He wastes no time on formalities – no exuberant greeting or answer as to why he is in her bed at three-thirty in the morning (she already knows, it has become habit with them) is forthcoming – simply pulls her into his arms. Rose allows herself to relax into him, fingers clutching at the TARDIS-blue flannel of his pajamas. Silent tears roll down her cheeks, soaking his shirt, and he holds her all the tighter, murmuring hollow reassurances into her ear.

_ It's alright, Rose. I'm here, I've got you. You're safe, it's not real. I've got you._

When they both knew that it was very, _very _real.

Long gone are the days when her night terrors involved being late for work, giant spiders, or – on the worst nights – meeting Jimmy Stone down a dark alley. All the foolish, unfounded fears of a nineteen-year-old shop girl who had experienced nothing of the world. And, as wondrous as this world – this whole _universe –_ is, it is equally as horrifying.

Now she sees her mum and Mickey cornered by Slitheen, she sees the clockwork droids strap down herself and Mickey, ready to cut them open, she sees the empty children or the crimson-eyed Ood or the Daleks converge on her and the Doctor. And, although she has been through all this before, though she knows what the ending is supposed to be, Rose finds that she cannot move an inch, cannot say a word, cannot do _anything_. She is forced to watch her family and friends slaughtered and it is only when they turn to start on her that she wakes, screams that she could not utter trapped in her throat.

Rose doesn't remember when the nightmares first started – on a time machine, it is difficult to pinpoint the exact date for anything – but is startled awake late one night (or early one morning), shaking with barely suppressed sobs, and finding a leather jacket draped over her shoulders. She clutches the jacket to her chest, a child with a security blanket, breathing in the scent. _His _scent.

When she finally does drift off again, her sleep is peaceful and uninterrupted and when she wakes in the morning – 9:30 AM, she is surprised the Doctor let her sleep in this long – the jacket is gone.

The Doctor is unusually solicitous toward her after nights like this – and there are other nights, during which the jacket always reappears – asking what she wants for breakfast or where she wants to go. There are no sarcastic quips about _stupid apes_ until at least noon and he snaps at Jack if the captain makes even the barest suggestion of a lewd remark (though the latter may be for his own personal enjoyment). Rose knows it is his way of apologizing for not being there himself, for offering up only the most superficial layer of himself – the rough-and-tough mask he dons to face the world – and hoping that it is enough.

Of course Rose doesn't expect him to stay. She's a grown woman and he's certainly not her mother, who would always brew her up a hot cuppa after a nightmare (usually of the giant spider variety).

But one night he does. One night her eyes pop open and the Doctor's blue eyes and big ears are the first thing she sees.

He doesn't say anything at first; looks, in fact, to be battling two primal urges – to run away and pretend this never happened or to wrap her in his arms until the shaking has subsided. By now they have, hesitantly, begun the tradition of post-adventure hugs and the strength of his grip in those few, quick seconds surprises her.

The Doctor sighs, appears to compromise with himself and, planting himself on the edge of the bed, throws an arm over her shuddering shoulders.

_ They go away eventually. _It is poor comfort but she knows it is the only kind he will offer.

"When?"

_ I don't know. _He gives her a slightly twisted smile. He is still dressed in his trademark jumper and dark trousers – the leather jacket is on the bed next to her. Rose wonders if he sleeps at all but doesn't dare ask; even knowing certain personal things about him – that he loves Harry Potter and has a bit of an obsession with bananas – he still intimidates her at times.

In return, he doesn't ask what her dream was about. They discuss everything but – the newest alien soap that Rose is partial toward and the Doctor mocks, the chip shop in Cardiff, Jack's newest sexual conquests – and, when the Doctor departs (he never stays until she falls asleep and she never asks him to), it is with Rose in a far calmer state than when he arrived. Rose finds that, though she dreads the nightmares, she looks forward to these late-night conversations. They never touch other than the occasional shoulder squeeze and their discussion, barring Jack's _dancing_, never slips into the realm of double entendres and innuendos. Still, there is something oddly intimate about it all – whispering in the darkness, the hum of the TARDIS the only sound; being careful not to wake Jack, afraid of sharing this moment with him.

The new Doctor (or _new-new Doctor_ as he calls himself) – so much more peppy, so much more, well . . . _sexy – _increases that feeling tenfold. One night, not long before the end of the Christmas holidays, she gasps herself awake – this time it was her mother, face devoid of emotion, jumping off the roof of the flat, compelled by the Sycorax – only to feel a pair of strong arms wrap around her. She opens her mouth to scream before she recognizes his face.

_ Shh, it's just me._

"Doctor?"

_ Hello. _He breathes the word against her hair and she can hear the smile in his voice before he pulls back to view her face. Gently, almost tenderly, he swipes a few stray tear tracks away with the pad of his thumb. Rose leans into his touch.

He lets her.

He is so much softer, and so much fiercer, than she ever imagined the Doctor could be. The way he holds her, the way she catches him looking at her sometimes – as if he is afraid she will disappear if he looks away or loosens his grip, even for a moment. The rough-and-tough man may wear a handsome mask but there is no disguising it utterly.

_ What was it? _he asks now when the tears have subsided and her grip on his shirt has slackened. _Rose, tell me. _

She shakes her head, refuses to meet his eyes.

He wants to know everything about her. There are days where he will sit down next to her and ask interminable, trivial questions – her favorite color (pink), her favorite food (chips), her favorite movie (The Notebook) – as though memorizing it all for future reference. It wouldn't surprise her. But this is information she can't share with him, it hurts enough to relive it in dreams without recounting it all over again.

_ Rose, _he begs. _Please._ When he squeezes her this time, it almost hurts.

She knows he blames himself for the nightmares, just as he does for every wrong that he was not there to prevent. She knows he wishes he could banish these mental terrors the same way he does countless alien nasties. She knows he hates himself for not being able to.

_ Please, Rose? _Well-used to her reluctance, he sets to work kneading her upper back – tangled in knots from tossing and turning – and Rose settles further into his arms. _You'll feel better after, I promise._

That is how it works in the Doctor's mind, she knows. Rose wakes up and he is there, Rose tells him what is wrong and he fixes it. He makes her laugh with some stupid joke or story or tells her why the dream would be logically impossible. He reminds her of what _really _happened.

Rose wishes it were that easy this time.

But how can he comfort her, what can he do, when what _really happened _is what scares her so much?

He _left _her.

What's more, he left her by choice.

All for a woman – a blonde, wealthy, eighteenth-century Frenchwoman.

And there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it.

Rose wishes it was just the aliens that scared her – the fear of facing them alone – but aliens she can deal with. But who's to say the same thing won't happen again? he will meet another charming, intelligent, wealthy woman and will go gallivanting off with her, leaving Rose to fend for herself. Who's to say he'll even come back next time? After all, what man would choose Rose over Madame de Bloody Pompadour?

No, what truly frightens her is how her heart will hold up without him. She only has one, after all.

But how can she tell him that? How can she expect him to feel the same way when he already gives her so much – this life she never imagined in her wildest dreams? He dedicates his life to making her happy, doesn't he deserve to be happy as well?

The Doctor's fingers course up and down her spine as he murmurs soothingly into her ear. She knows he wants, more than anything, to heal her as he heals all her physical ills, to live up to his title of _Doctor_.

But how can he protect her from himself?

**. . .**

**A/N: **Came out slightly angstier than I intended but I hope you enjoyed! Next chapter will be the Doctor's nightmares before I move on to the next (fluffier) topic.


	5. Nightmares II

**A/N: **Sorry for the long wait between updates. I've been battling a bad cold for the past week or so and being doped up on cold medicine isn't too conducive to good fic writing. But on the plus side, it did give me an idea for a future chapter!

As with the previous, this chapter includes the Ninth and Tenth Doctors.

_Allons-y!_

**. . .**

**Nightmares II**

"They go away eventually." The Doctor squeezes Rose's shoulder. Poor comfort, but it is the best this body can offer.

_ When? _Her eyes plead with him to answer this question as he has so many others – with a condescending glance and a slew of technical terms.

Rassilon, he wishes he could. But this is not physics or quantum mechanics or the history of Raxacoricofallapatorius. This is a question of emotion and, for once, the answer is not catalogued in that well of information he calls his mind. He has seen enough of human interaction to know it is the type of question where the man says _no_ when asked _does this make me look fat _or _yes, you're right dear _when he grows tired of arguing. Except this is so, _so _much more important because it's Rose and she's crying – he _hates _it when she cries – and those brown eyes are looking for some answer, _any _answer.

But the Doctor has never been good at this emotional stuff and all he can say is _I don't know_. He can't lie to her with an ambiguous _soon _or even offer a specific time-frame, one couched in so many technical terms she will be unable to wrap her human head around it. She deserves so much more, but all he can give her is the smallest approximation of the truth – he _doesn't _know. Oh, but how he wishes he did. For both their sakes.

He wishes it were that simple, that he could mark off the date on a calendar and count down the days – a child waiting for Christmas. He could refuse to sleep till that unknown date – a feat he is more than capable of, he has gone years before – and when he finally _did _let his eyelids drift shut, it would be in the knowledge that he would not be awakened in a cold sweat, horrific visions – the genocide of Time Lords and Daleks alike – still dancing across his consciousness, playing out in the ship he sees as sanctuary. But the old girl cannot protect him from the menace of his own mind.

It is almost a relief to him when Rose has nightmares. Because on those nights, nights where she wakes, gasping and shaking (sometimes calling out his name in a panic and he is at her side in an instant – _I'm here, I'm here now_), he feels needed. And on those long nights when he sits, alone, at the console, lost in his own dark past, he _needs _someone to need him. After all, it's a bit difficult to brood when he's busy making stupid jokes or squeezing her shoulders or even – in that newer, prettier body – whispering soothing, sweet nothings against her hair.

He falls asleep with her some nights, back propped up against the headboard, her bright-blonde head nestled against his chest. These are nights where they sleep deeply and wake late – Rose stretching contentedly, cat-like, against his chest, he blinking down at her, lips twitching as he watches her claw her way back to reality.

This new body has so few inhibitions toward their pink-and-yellow human that he can't help but use her as a balm against his own terrors. How can he possibly preoccupy himself with the terrors of the Time War when Rose is crying his name?

Hers becomes the voice that invades his worst nightmares. He cannot pinpoint the exact date – on a time machine it is difficult, even for a Time Lord – but falls asleep one night to her (real or imagined?) screams in Magpie's shop the night of the Queen's coronation – the night he abandoned her, left her just as surely as the Wire sucked off her face and _left her in the street _with her face, her beautiful face, imprisoned in that black-and-white telly, crying out _Doctor, Doctor _on repeat. He hears her plaintive voice over the com that horrible day in Krop Tor, asking _Doctor, what did it mean? _over and over when Rassilon, he has no idea what it means and he's scared too – terrified even – because what if he can't get back up and what if the _valiant child _dies in battle this very day and he's not there to stop it? He watches her, mouth formed in a soundless scream as he shouts her name, being sucked away from him and there is nothing he can do to stop it and he has absolutely no idea what it means. He is a Time Lord all is supposed to be known to him – what will be, what may be, what _must not_. There has to be _something _he can do to stop it but suppose – just suppose – there's not? This is what terrifies him most of all.

And this is what starts him awake some nights, sweat beading his brow, hands shaking as he seeks out the warm body beside him.

_You alright, Doct'r?_ Half-asleep still, she reaches out to him, misses his hand entirely and lands on his bare chest instead, tracing lazy circles. The Doctor isn't one to complain.

He presses a kiss to her hair. "I'm always alright."

_Mmm. _She burrows further into his chest, muttering incoherently. They sound like affectionate mutters and he chuckles.

It is nights like this when he tells himself that that mystery of a nightmare must not, _will _not, happen. How dare it presume to be a fixed point in time when he, Time Lord Victorious, the Oncoming Storm, wills it not to be? Because how can she leave – he doesn't like that term, _leave_,_ it _makes it seem so voluntary but it is still easier to face than _die –_ when he needs her this much? Because how long can he possibly stay _alright _without her?

**. . .**

**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed! Let me know in a review!

Before the next chapter, I will be writing a fix-it for the 50th because WTF Steven Moffat – WHAT WAS THAT? Completely arbitrary that Rose (or the Interface in the likeness of Rose) could not interact with the Tenth or Eleventh Doctors. The most we got was Ten getting excited about "Bad Wolf" (and you could see he was looking around for Rose and I was _squee_-ingand then he just LET IT GO! To quote a (well-characterized) Ten: _What?_

Also, was it just me or was he rubbing the Ten/Queen Elizabeth "romance" in our face WAY too much! How many on-screen kisses did they have (which Ten didn't look too enthusiastic about in my opinion – thank you for that, DT!)? And how many did the Doctor and Rose have? MOFFAT!

Basically the only thing keeping me calm was that Rose and Ten II were in that other universe and (as far as I could tell) Moffat couldn't do anything to mess that up.

OK, rant over. I'd love to see any of your opinions on the 50th in a review or PM – I need to commiserate with fellow fans here!


	6. Thanksgiving

**A/N: **I'm currently working on my 50th fix-it fic (tentatively to be called **Bad Wolf Girl**) but wanted to post this for the holiday. :)

Happy Thanksgiving to my US readers! And to my non-US readers Happy Americans Eat A Ton Of Food (Just Like Any Other Day – Seriously Why Do They Do This, Christmas Is Like A Month Away) Day!

_Allons-y!_

**. . .**

**Thanksgiving**

It is the third Wednesday of July when the Doctor and Rose land on Plymouth Rock on the fourth Thursday of November. At least according to the calendar hanging on her bedroom wall.

According to the Pilgrims that greet them the moment they step out of the TARDIS – Rose dressed in a conservative, Puritan-style dress and the Doctor still in his pinstripes – it is a day to _give thanks_.

Innocently, the Doctor suggests _Thanksgiving_. Rose shoots him a look.

His only reply is a waggle of his eyebrows.

_Well, how do we know I _wasn't _the one to invent it? _he asks her later, over dinner, leaning across the heavily-laden table to whisper in her ear. _I am rather brilliant like that._

"And so humble." Rose grins at him.

_Never said that, did I? _He winks and she laughs, catches several elderly women giving them scandalized looks, and squeezes his arm for good measure.

They eat until their bellies are full to bursting – turkey and goose and rabbit (which Rose refuses to touch), squash and beans and mashed potatoes, pumpkin and apple and blueberry pies – all with only a minor, drunken scuffle that the Doctor breaks up fairly quickly.

It is pitch-black by the time they begin their halting journey back to the TARDIS – Rose groaning and clutching her stomach, the Doctor already planning _their _Thanksgiving in that extra-manic, bubbly way he gets when he's just a little bit drunk.

_It'll be great, Rose, you'll see. There'll be turkey – ooh, did I tell you, I saw these great birds over on Barcelona, the planet Barcelona, they're s'posed to be even tastier. We could get one o' them – whaddya think? _He mistakes her nauseous expression. _Not that _we _have to kill it . . . but we can always get a turkey back home too – at your mum's, I mean. Kinda my second home, innit? Ooh, we should invite your mum, too, shouldn't we? _(Rose makes a mental note to remind him of this in future)._ She might not be able to cook but she makes great tea – and tea, tea goes _great _with pie! Pie – it's like liquid cake! And there are so many types – pumpkin, apple, strawberry-rhubarb, banana, now that's _my _favorite. And it's such a fun word – banaaana, banaaana. . . . I swear, you humans come up with the best . . . you alright, Rose?_

That's when he scoops her up, seemingly unfazed by the mountain of food residing in his digestive tract (_damn _that superior Time Lord thyroid thingymabobber of his) and carries her over the threshold into the TARDIS.

**. . .**

It is the fourth Thursday of November – according to the calendar tacked to Rose's bedroom wall – when Jackie comes into the TARDIS, carrying a store-bought pumpkin pie and complaining about _crazy aliens_ (the Doctor shrugs)and _you know, this holiday doesn't even exist over here in Britain_ ("It's just about giving thanks, Jackie," says the Doctor)and _you're carving that bird all wrong _("Oh, you want me to take _your _advice on cooking, Jackie?" the Doctor laughs) and_ what's that _thing _you're pointing at it – is that some weird sex thing?_ ("It's a sonic screwdriver, Jackie," the Doctor explains and doesn't offer another word).

But when he meets her eyes he smiles and, as he hands her a bowl of cranberry sauce to put on the table, Rose knows exactly what she gives thanks for.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed! Let me know in a review!

On a totally random side note . . . I recently read **The Stone Rose **(one of the official DW books) and it is so shippy and perfect for any Doctor/Rose fan – they kiss, seriously smush their beautiful faces together and kiss! I highly recommend it – so read it over the long weekend!


	7. Spa Days

**A/N: **Sorry for the longer wait on this one, I was working on my 50th story. It's called **Growing Up **if you want to go check it out –hint, hint-

_Allons-y!_

**. . .**

**Spa Days**

The Doctor can never resist those eyes. Whether it be a minor annoyance (a trip to the universe's largest shopping mall) or a potential paradox (a visit to Pete in Pete's World), he can never _just say no_.

He always starts off with good intentions – _not today, I have to work on the TARDIS_; _no, Rose, a parallel world is dangerous enough_ – and she will lower her eyes, just enough that he thinks he's won, before peeking back up, hitting the unsuspecting Doctor with the full force of the Rose Tyler Puppy-Dog Look (patent pending). And suddenly the Doctor finds he can work on the TARDIS another day and, oh, one little visit won't kill them – but _no more than that, Rose Tyler!_

If, in some strange, alternate world, Rose is a drug-dealer, there is no doubt in the Doctor's mind that he is an addict. But here, in this universe, Rose Tyler is a drug all her own, his own _personal brand of heroin_. He cringes at the thought, irritated with himself for committing the quote to memory. Why Rose insists on watching those films, let alone why he sits through them – _we've seen _Lion King _twenty times, Doctor _and she lowers her eyes again when he refuses because _vampires do _not _sparkle, Rose Tyler _and . . . oh yes, that's why.

Today, it's the spa. Not just any spa, but the largest the universe has to offer, located on the pleasure planet of Manipediuria.

The Doctor only mentions the planet in passing but, when Rose laughs at the name (_sounds like an illness_) – and despite every instinct screaming otherwise – goes on to expound on Manipediuria's main attraction. The moment the words fall from his lips he wishes he could take them back, but he sees Rose perk up, a glint in her eyes and knows it is too late, far too late.

And so it begins.

The Doctor is rather proud of himself – he lasts a whole three days. He tells her that human biology isn't compatible with the atmosphere (_I'll take my chances_); that there's a nasty alien flu going around that makes you turn blue (_I'll match the TARDIS, then_); that he never would've mentioned it if she hadn't distracted his superior Time Lord brain by painting her nails in the console room and suppose some of that vile _Passion Pink _substance had spilled on the TARDIS and they were trapped in the Powell Estates with Jackie forever and it was all Rose's fault? (Because what else can he say – that the distraction was her low-cut top and all he could think about was snogging her senseless? Time Lords don't have such carnal needs, and definitely not toward their human companions.)

And all Rose has to say is _Doctor, I need a break _and, _well _. . . the spa doesn't sound _that _bad (his feet _have _been aching from all that running) and maybe they _could _use a break.

Such a break, the Doctor holds firmly, does _not _include massages. Particularly not full-body massages. Particularly not full-body massages by six-armed alien masseuses.

Rose puts her name in all the same.

"Look at his _skin_, Rose. It's _blue_."

_A very nice shade of blue, _Rose notes, eying said blue skin interestedly. She smiles at him and he smiles back – actually it's more like a leer – and lifts one arm in a wave.

The Doctor glares.

"I'll have you know that's the _exact_ shade of blue that alien bug makes you turn" – _your fantasy flu, Doctor?_ – "I told you, it's only in rural areas, but we don't know where _he_ comes from, do we? I'm not taking chances with your health, Rose."

Cavalier with her safety as always, Rose is halfway across the foyer. The masseuse offers a towel and she takes it; he says something and she laughs – _no, not my boyfriend_; he leers again, places a hand on the small of her back.

The Doctor wants to punch him.

Instead, he signs up for a massage. Crossing all six of his arms across his bare chest – is that really necessary? isn't it unhygienic? – the masseuse sighs and nods for the Doctor to follow. His hand returns to Rose's back.

He leads them through a labyrinth of passageways – ambiguously toned moans sound from a few half-open doors and the Doctor eyes their guide still more warily – into a stark white room. Soothing music echoes from its' walls but it does nothing to soothe the Doctor who, ignoring the changing rooms entirely, quickly strips, baring his own chest in silent challenge.

The masseuse hands him a robe. "You're naked."

"Oh, yes." The Doctor holds his gaze fiercely as he slips into the robe, only breaking off to smile broadly at Rose as she enters the room, discarded clothing tucked neatly under one arm.

Oozing that same slimy charm (and apparently undeterred by the Doctor's display of manliness) the masseuse reaches for the bunched clothing – _here, let me take those for you_ – and, while two hands close around the jeans and T-shirt, the fingers of another brush her breast: a breast, the Doctor is suddenly very aware, that is covered by nothing but a thin robe.

The Doctor_ really _wants to punch him.

The masseuse gestures for the Doctor to lie down on one of the massage tables (he doesn't) and leads Rose over to the other. She loosens the robe's tie before lying face-down, casting the Doctor a concerned glance as she does so. The Doctor, however, is too fixated on the man hovering above her – two hands sliding the robe down her shoulders, another pair covering her with a sheet (just as thin as the robe), and the third . . . well, the third. . . .

He never realized how _hard _faces were.

Then Rose is saying – almost _shouting –_ _no, Doctor, stop it _and _I know you get jealous, but this is ridiculous_ and _for God's sake, he thought you were _gay_! _The Doctor looks down, just enough to make her think she's won, before he peeks back up, hitting his unsuspecting Rose with the full force of the Doctor Puppy-Dog Look (patent pending).

All of a sudden Rose is having a hard time maintaining her glare and, oh, it isn't _such _a big deal (the masseuse _was _rather handsy) – _but don't do it again, Doctor!_ – and his offer of a massage (_much better than that lot_ and he gestures at the pink planet now receding in the distance) doesn't sound so bad after all. Her only condition, accompanied by a Look of her own, is that he throw in a pedicure while he's at it and, as he is widely-renowned for his massage and nail-art skills – _ask anyone, Rose! _– the Doctor obliges.

He is as good as his word; the work of his nimble finger – across her shoulders and down her spinal column, into the arches of her calves and the soles of her feet – sends shivers down both their spines. The Doctor brushes her inner thigh, a happy accident, and the leg twitches in response; she turns to watch him and he knows that if he were to try something, Look or not, she would not push him away.

The Doctor removes his hand, moves to her toes instead. She laughs as his fingers brush a sensitive spot and kicks out, but he holds her firmly, studying the symbol he has tattooed onto the ten digits.

She asks him what it means: Ten circles within circles on a TARDIS-blue background. He tells her it's Gallifreyan, that it means _Rose_.

"Mine," he translates now, his voice a whisper, low enough as to be indiscernible. He says it again, moving down her foot, daring her to detect it. "Mine, mine, mine."

**. . .**

**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed! Possessive/jealous Doctor is one of my favorites to read/write. Let me know what you thought in a review or PM.

I will try to get another chapter out, tentatively titled **Sick Days**, before the Christmas chapter.


	8. Sick Days

**A/N: **Merry Christmas Eve, everyone! I don't have the Christmas chapter written yet but hopefully I can get it out by Thursday. It'll be a Christmas miracle. ;)

Anyway, hope you enjoy this one!

_Allons-y!_

**. . .**

**Sick Days**

Rose Tyler may not know many Time Lords but, take away the whole regeneration and Lord of Time bits, and they're just like any other human male (if ten times more arrogant). The Doctor is living proof.

_ Time Lords do not snore, Rose Tyler. _

They do. Loudly.

_ Time Lords do not watch sappy romances, Rose Tyler._

They do. And they cry when hero and heroine in said _sappy romance _kiss.

_ Time Lords do not ask for directions, Rose Tyler._

They should. So that they do not pilot themselves and their (very forgiving) companion to _another_ planet in the midst of a civil war when they were supposed to have arrived a century earlier, on a planet in a separate galaxy altogether, in the first place.

So when the Doctor tells her _Time Lords don't get sick _– already too hoarse to tack on the requisite _Rose Tyler_ – Rose is not at all surprised to find him bed-ridden the next morning, barely able to speak (a welcome change) and scribbling furiously on a pad of paper.

_ Rose, I'm dying._

Fighting the urge to roll her eyes, Rose places a reassuring hand on his arm. "It's just a cold, Doctor. Sure, they're not fun, but they're not fatal – at least not where I come from."

The Doctor shakes his head mournfully, shows her the paper again.

_ Time Lord immune systems are designed to fight off all manner of diseases. If I've caught something as simple as a cold, that means that my immunity has been compromised in some way and my body is beginning to shut down._

"That, or you're not as brilliant as you think you are." He pouts and sniffles and looks so forlorn that, despite his written refute of _Impossible_, Rose softens slightly. "Calm down, Doctor, it's just a cold."

But it is _not just a cold, Rose Tyler_. It is a life-threatening illness – _and I'd really rather not use one of my regenerations on this, never mind if I might be ginger –_ that could come to claim him at any moment and . . . _that tastes __horrible__, Rose Tyler, isn't this cold doing a good enough job of killing me?_ The glare he sends her way is rather lessened by his bloodshot eyes and runny nose.

It doesn't kill him. In fact, it might have just made him _ever so slightly better_, enough to manage some tea and toast (plus a banana milkshake she gets from the corner store because they're _supposed to speed up the Gallifreyan healing process _and Rose doesn't have the heart to argue).

She doesn't have the heart to argue much over the next few days – watching _Lion King _(his favorite) and _Tangled _(her favorite) till they both know the songs by heart, reading aloud from Harry Potter (he loves her Luna impression but stops her with a worried expression when he hears her own voice grow hoarse), falling asleep with his arms wrapped tight around her, a child with an oversized teddy-bear. Honestly, she doesn't much mind that last one; doesn't mind any of them, really, just as long as his hand is in hers and he's staring at her with that _look _in his eyes – as if she is the only person in this whole terrifying universe who can save him and he only needs her to _stay, Rose, please stay – just for tonight_.

If Rose is ever-so slightly disappointed when he begins babbling and bounding about the TARDIS once more, she tells herself that it's just sleep she's after – she hasn't gotten much the past few days, an occupational hazard of sleeping with a sick man – and why should she let prime teasing material go to waste?

She can only offer half-hearted jibes – not at all up to her usual standard – but the Doctor gives her _"A" for effort _all the same (a lie, but a nice one).

"I thought Time Lords didn't get sick, Doctor." As he nurses a cup of tea and Rose attempts to clear sleep from her eyes.

"Sure you're not gonna regenerate on me?" As he tinkers with the TARDIS, unnecessary glasses perched on the tip of his nose and Rose clears her unnaturally scratchy throat.

"Should all them Daleks watch out for the Oncoming Sneeze then?" As Rose begins a sneezing fit of her own and the Doctor is quick to bundle her off to bed.

They watch _The Notebook _(her favorite) and _Romeo and Juliet _(his favorite, because if it _has _to be a romance, it might as well be something by Shakespeare) and _Pride and Prejudice _(another one of her favorites and when he reads her the novel, found in the TARDIS library, she laughs at his Mrs. Bennet impression until she starts to hack and he stops himself short). He brings her cup after cup of tea and chicken soup (from the cafe down the street though he swears he made it) and enough tissues to paper her bedroom.

Rose doesn't have to ask him to stay and he doesn't ask if she wants him to, simply does. He curls an arm protectively around her and drapes his overcoat across them both – a makeshift security blanket. She wakes what might be hours, what might be minutes later, to his tie tickling her nose; he is humming some strange tune and she doesn't think he realizes she's awake. He would never look at her like that otherwise – that same awed expression he wore a few days ago, as if she is the only person in this whole, terrifying universe.

As if, even now, _she _is the one saving _him_.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Not sure about this one, I couldn't really get things to flow as well as I wanted. Let me know what you think!


	9. The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

**A/N: **Happy 2014, everyone! So, here is the belated Christmas chapter. Better late than never, right?

But seriously, sorry for the long wait on this one. I was going through some nasty depression/writer's block. Not fun, to say the least.

On the plus-side, I got the day off from work because of ridiculous amounts of snow and I got to finish this chapter and start on the next!

_Allons-y!_

**. . .**

**The Most Wonderful Time of the Year**

The Doctor frowns at the wreath adorning Rose's door and the mistletoe Jack has placed over every lintel. He forbids them to get a Christmas tree for the console room – _foreign substances aren't good for the old girl and who knows what chemicals you humans sprayed them down with –_ and only shrugs when Rose calls him a Grinch. He knows better than to try and explain – saying you don't like Christmas, in any period of human culture, is nothing less than blasphemy.

It isn't the relentlessly cheery tunes that tear at the eardrums (_you're a mean one, Mr. Grinch! _Rose and Jack belt out) or the overindulgence the entire _holiday season _glorifies with its' honeyed ham and Christmas crackers and pudding or even the rampant commercialization that engenders such crazy shoppers (or do the consumers cause the commercialization? A question for the philosophers). To be honest, he is rather fond of it all. A whole planet full of people running around, looking for the biggest tree and the perfect presents and the brightest lights, and all for one day of controlled chaos that ends in torn wrapping paper and stuffed stomachs. It's ridiculous, but it is the sheer magnitude of that ridiculousness – a whole _planet _with such screwed-up priorities – that helps him forget exactly what _his _priorities are.

Forget that it's his job to save them, to be there every day (and certainly every Christmas – he can only guess the rest of the universe is not as amused by the holiday as he is) because without him there will be no more oversized Christmas trees or overindulgent Christmas dinner or overpriced pieces of the newest silly technology (all of which the Doctor has seen on other planets several centuries earlier). Because unless he plays the Grinch, the rest of the universe will instead and the Doctor is still rather fond of the Whos down in Whoville (a pink-and-yellow one in particular). Because he, with his leather jacket and blue police-box, is the closest thing to Santa Claus this planet has, and the whole magic of Santa is his seeming nonexistence. (That's enough Christmas analogies for now, any more and he'll have to accept the spiked eggnog that a _just slightly _tipsy Jack is offering and get into the true _spirit of Christmas _and before you know it, Daleks or Racnoss or Slitheen will have destroyed half of London).

The Doctor does his best to ignore the tree that shows up – quite mysteriously – in the console room the next day (mostly because when he tries to squeeze it back through the door – the TARDIS not being at all accommodating – Rose and Jack put up such a fuss and it's hard to be a Grinch when she turns _those_ eyes on you). So disregard is his method of choice – along with some well-placed scoffs and sneers about _stupid apes _and their _inane holidays _that really pull the whole thing together.

Retreating to his study with one last, scornful glance over his shoulder – Rose is twining gold tinsel around herself like a feather boa and giggling like mad – the Doctor slams the door with unnecessary vigor. The heavy wood muffles the sound of the non-stop Christmas tunes that the TARDIS insists on playing but it is not so easy to banish the lyrics from his head (_have a holly-jolly Christmas_/_jingle bells, jingle bells_/_walking in a winter wonderland_). At least he isn't having _thoughts of sugarplums_.

Not so easy either to reject Rose's incessant invitations: to come decorate the tree, play a drinking game against any number of classic Christmas films (_drink every time Charlie Brown complains about his life_, _drink whenever Rudolph's nose glows_), join them for a sobering meal of hot cocoa and cookies. _Mebbe even bananas, _Rose laughs (more-than-slightly tipsily this time), giving him a tongue-between-her-teeth grin._ An' that's not an innuendo, Doctah._

It hurts to wipe that grin off her face, and he ignores the urge to call her back, to take her hand in his and sit by the Christmas tree (lit brightly enough to power her flat for a week) with a cup of cocoa and a banana biscuit. Time Lords don't engage in such frivolity; Time Lords sit in their studies and read books on metaphysics while their silly human companions become steadily more boisterous. And metaphysics is _much _more interesting, isn't it?

Impossible to ignore, however, is the neatly-wrapped package Rose presents him with on – by her calculations – Christmas Eve.

_To: The Doctor_

_From: Rose_

_I know you're not one for Christmas but – sod it, just open it, you crazy Time Lord._

The Doctor doesn't plan to, means only to smile and thank her – he can't bring himself to wipe that smile off her face on today of all days – and leave the mysterious package on a shelf in the storage room. Because Time Lords do not receive Christmas gifts, particularly not Christmas gifts in red-and-green wrapping paper with smiling snowmen (imagine how many trees are killed every year _just _to make wrapping paper) and suddenly it is _sod the trees _and the Doctor is tearing at the paper, as eager as a child on – well, on _Christmas –_ to discover what Santa (his own personal Santa, his Rose Tyler) has left for him.

_It's not much. . . ._

It is a signed copy of Dickens's _Christmas Carol_. He stares, shell-shocked.

"Rose. . . ."

_I know, it was a dumb idea. _She is babbling worse than him. _Just, when we visited Victorian England a few weeks ago, he was havin' some reading. And you and Jack were off doing alien stuff and he remembered me and . . . I thought, well, never mind. . . ._

"Rose." The Doctor can't stop himself from laughing. "Rose, it's _fantastic_. Really. But I didn't get you anything. Isn't that a tradition with you humans – exchanging gifts?"

It's Rose's turn to laugh. _Doctor, you let me travel the universe in your time-and-space ship. That's a lifetime's worth of presents right there._

But it isn't enough. It will never be enough. Because Rose isn't there for any selfless, charitable reason; it wasn't any outpouring of generosity that made him invite her on-board – not just once, but twice, he _never _asks twice. No, he simply couldn't stand being alone because when he was alone all he could see was Gallifrey, burning, and when he was with her all he could see – all he could _think about –_ was her brown eyes and her blonde hair and her kind smile. Plus she had saved his life, that might come in useful. (He doesn't know what he would have done if she had said _no _a second time, maybe join Mickey, trailing behind her like a lovesick puppy-dog).

Her mere presence on this time-and-space ship is a gift to him – a gift that can't be met with any amount of jewelry or tropical vacations or shopping expeditions. No matter what, he always comes up short.

In the end, the best he can do is send her away, back to Jackie and Mickey and the rest, in the hopes that this – _their –_ fantastic life will fuel an even-more-fantastic future. After all, she knows what's out there now, knows there is so much more to life than working and eating and sleeping. She deserves to find someone who feels the same – someone who has glimpsed something strange out of the very corner of his eye and has kept on looking, someone who can buy proper Christmas gifts, someone who isn't a grumpy-faced, big-eared old Time Lord – to share that fantastic life with (so what if he can't envision the same, can't even comprehend what _fantastic _is without Rose Tyler? She deserves so much more than him, so much_ better_).

But she comes back (of course she comes back, how could he have thought it would go any other way, Rose Tyler eats the impossible for breakfast) and he's furious (why would she come back, throw that final gift in his face? Oh, isn't that just like a human) and frightened (she's going to _burn_ if he doesn't do something and what sort of gratitude would that be?) and exhilarated (lips still tingling from the kiss – that _kiss –_ he knows that he only has a few moments left but it's alright, everything's alright, if only he can keep looking into her eyes) all at once. And by the time the dust finally settles – Rose brought home for Christmas (another attempt at a present, aborted by the annual alien invasion), the Sycorax defeated (and disintegrated by one Harriet Jones), and a whole pot of Jackie's restorative tea drained – the Doctor is a new man.

What type of man he has yet to discover. Does he still like bananas in his pancakes? Is his favorite color still blue?

Is this body the type of man who sticks around for Christmas dinner and brings a banana-cream pie for afters? Is this strange man, with his new teeth and new-new hand, the type to sit with Rose by the Christmas tree and throw an arm casually around her shoulders and sing carols? Is this Doctor the type to exclaim excitedly over the T-shirt Rose gives him (_Trust me, I'm a doctor – brilliant!_) and to hand her a gift in return (a necklace he picked up at an alien bazaar when he spotted her looking, not altogether sure if he planned to give it to her or not) and grin goofily when she gasps in surprise?

He thinks he might be, hopes he might be.

He dares to believe that this man is the man Rose Tyler needs.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Let me know what you thought in a review! I'm going to try my best to get the next chapter (titled **The Most Terrible Time of the Month **– can you guess what that's about?) out by Tuesday or Wednesday.

Here's to hoping!


	10. The Most Terrible Time of the Month

**A/N: **Managed to get this up much earlier than I expected. Enjoy! :D

_Allons-y!_

**. . .**

**The Most Terrible Time of the Month**

Rose Tyler has never been the type of girl to mark it down on a calendar; with double-shifts at Henrik's, domestic duties, and rare nights out with the girls, she doesn't have the time to keep track. In all honesty, she doesn't know any real girls who do, they all seem to exist as quirky rom-com heroines whose sole purpose in life is to have great hair, killer legs, and a gorgeous boyfriend to come home to (in a flat no normal twenty-something could afford) who said heroine can shag to her heart's content without fear of getting pregnant because she knows exactly where she is – down to the minute – in her ovulation cycle. (Rose's hair is alright on the best of days, her legs could do with work, and she still lives in a flat with her mum. She has had one pregnancy scare with Jimmy who, though undoubtedly gorgeous, advises her to cool it on the chips for a little while when the stick shows up negative because _I don't date fatties _and abandons her a month later.)

She and Mickey don't do it often enough – whether because she's so busy or because she just doesn't care enough, Rose isn't sure – to justify worry and on the TARDIS it is difficult enough to keep track of the current day, never mind counting thirty of them between one period and the next.

The Doctor remembers anyway. Heating pads are placed in any room on the TARDIS she may happen to frequent and Rose's favorite films mysteriously make their way into the DVD player in the days preceding. One day, she catches him stocking one of the cupboards with her favorite chocolates, ready to be miraculously discovered in the case of a craving, and is simultaneously overwhelmed with incredible affection (_he is the sweetest man, my God, I love him so much_) and irritation (_I can take care of myself – I'm just as capable as buying that stuff as he is, I'm just trying to watch my figure. God, I'm fat_). She settles for crying instead.

_It's alright, _the Doctor soothes, murmuring the words against her hair. _Happens to the best of us. Besides, you only have one more day till your menstruation begins and your hormones are all over the place._

"How do you even _know _that?" Rose snaps. Words like _menstruation _aren't supposed to sound that sexy slipping off the tongue.

_Well,_ he hedges. _I smell you._

"I _smell_?"

_No! Yes. Not really . . . a little. You see, your body exudes certain chemicals at certain points in . . . but it's lovely, really. You smell like – like Rose, your own personal perfume. They should bottle it: Eau de Rose, they'd make millions._ He beams at her, but looks horrified as her eyes fill with tears again.

_Really, Rose, you smell beautiful. Best scent in the universe, you are. I'm telling you, I'd bottle you up and . . . sorry, that sounds wrong. Who's up for chips? Chips sound good? I'll go and get chips. Salt-and-vinegar?_

"Am I really that scary?" Rose asks the next day, curled up in bed – the Doctor correct, as per usual, in his estimation of her _menstruation –_ with another meal of chips (_the greasiest I could find_) and Cadbury chocolate, the Doctor sitting attentively by her side.

The Doctor only scoffs, reaching over to adjust the heating pad on her abdomen. _Rose Tyler, I've faced down Daleks. . . ._

"And a girl on her period makes you shake in your Converse." Rose laughs, wincing as another cramp courses through her, and is quick to accept the pain pills he proffers (it has barely been four hours but he keeps them up like clockwork).

_I'm a Doctor, Rose._ _I don't like seeing anyone in pain. Especially –_ and for a moment, she thinks he will say _you_, the word floating in the air between them even now, an unspoken promise but he finishes instead: _not with something so barbaric._

_ "Barbaric_? _W_hy don't you go and call me a _stupid ape _while you're at it. Been a whole week since you've done that." Rose pelts a chip at his head; he catches it and pops it into her partially-open mouth before licking the salt off his own fingertips.

_It is, though. You human women have to go through this every month, don't you? Only stops if you get pregnant; of course, then you have to go through childbirth anyway. I've delivered a few children in my day and it doesn't seem a whole lot of fun. And all because those first humans – now they were _really _stupid apes – ate the wrong piece of fruit and your God was feeling a bit tetchy. Bet it was a pear, I've never liked pears. Now a banana, He'd probably have forgiven that, just gone 'don't do it again' or sommat. They're too delicious to really make a fuss over, aren't they? And a great source of potassium. . . ._

"What about your lot, then?" Rose asks, abruptly cutting off his babble. "Don't Gallifreyan women . . . sorry, I shouldn't have asked, forget it." But she catches sight of his expression, turned haunted and pensive at the mere mention of his former home, and knows he is already there, bearing witness where no one else can.

He tells her that Gallifreyans didn't have children in the traditional way and didn't have to worry about messy little things like fertilization and menstruation and a bunch of other _-ations_. He tells her that the _conception _is a ceremonial process between husband and wife and the child is little more than a blend of ingredients, a genetic soup. He tells her that, though Gallifreyan parents care for their children, marriages are arranged, a bonding of two like minds, advantageous only in the knowledge to be gained. He tells her – Rose not exactly sure _why _he is telling her but the words seem to be coming too fast for him to stop them now – that any other feelings are discouraged (if not, in the more rebellious cases, eliminated altogether), that a Time Lord's solitary purpose is to be just that – a lord of time, knowing all there is to know – and everything else just gets in the way.

Rose hisses in pain and she sees the Doctor's fingers clench before his eyes grow soft. He leans forward to readjust the heating pad, leaving his hand there for just a moment to rub soothing circles across her skin. He clears away the chips and chocolate wrappers before he presents her with a cup of honeyed tea (_two hours till the next dose, Rose, I'm sorry_) and asks if she wants to watch a film.

He flips on the television, _When Harry Met Sally _already in the player, and settles in next to her, stroking her hair when she uses his chest as a pillow.

He stays all night.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Next chapter, to be titled **Nights In**, should be out soon! I will also be working on a couple of fluffy one-shots that have been taking up space in the back of my mind for a while now so be on the lookout for those!

As always, let me know what you thought in a review!


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